Jackie Loves Johnser, OK by Neville Thompson Poolbeg 288pp, £5.99
Dog Days and Other Stories edited by Clem Cairns Fish Publishing 164pp, £6.50
The opening chapters of Jackie Loves Johnser, OK are beautifully written, each one a jewel-like scene of Dublin life and impoverished adolescence. Jackie is a heartrendingly loveable hero, and the boy she loves, the ambitious petty criminal Johnser, a convincingly decent poor eejit. Neville Johnson shows great promise, with a screenwriter's discipline and command not to be found in many literary novelists.
The setting in the hopeless wastes of Ballyfermot, among people who wouldn't know a Celtic Tiger if they had it in their tank, is perfectly realised. Johnser's progression from sweetshop chocolate-bar lifter through bank heists to drug lordship is narrated by him and by the hapless Jackie in an alternating duo of voices which lights the story from two very different ethical points.
Johnser's gradual hardening from a cocky and lighthearted petty thief into a wealthy dullard full of self-pity is delicately handled, and his marriage to the awful Tara is hilarious in a horrible sort of way. Jackie's typically female life is handled with a little less assurance, but she acts as an arclight on Johnser's criminal career.
The book is already an underground hit with those who recognise its roman a clef mastery of the Ballyfermot underworld, its scenes and characters. It is also a very promising first novel, with a first novel's flaws, but offering hope of masterly writing in the future.
There is one thing in the book that I hated: the way the fine opening scene segues into an endless flashback, leaving the reader wondering "what happened?" for the rest of the book.. I could have forgiven the author if, when the flashback finally ended, he had resolved the original scene with a satisfying twist. But he doesn't.
Dog Days and Other Stories comprises fourteen new short stories from the Fish contest, rounded up with an introduction by Joseph O'Connor, who writes: "Our task as short story writers is to grab that moment with both hands and invest it with all of the power and humanity and sympathy we can . . . To tell the truth. That's what all the hard work comes down to in the end."
IT does and it doesn't. Fiction - a film, a play, a novel, even a bedtime story to tell to a child or a partner - has to do more than tell the truth. It has to stab the reader in the heart with that truth, by creating a world and heroes so steeped in meaning and urgency that the reader or listener is lost in this impassioned life, and utterly changed on return to the mundane world.
These stories share the quality of being modern, light, stylish; a little cautious of any wild imagery. They examine incidents with exquisite delicacy.
The winning story, "Dog Days", is Karl Iagnemma's portrait of the beginning of a stifling marriage, as the pregnant Christina forces her husband to get rid of his beloved dog for the sake of their unborn child. It's an American theme, and an irresistible image for the way that marriage makes people shed their earlier loyalties to commit to the spouse. The narrator's plea "you're tearing my balls off" states the story's premise and theme in one; interesting to wonder how it would read, told with the gender roles reversed. "In one month, Michael will be two," the story ends. "At night, in our bedroom, Christina and I bicker in hushed tones. We argue about what's best for him. Him. He sits on my knee and looks at me, wanting to know things, and I tell him. I teach him everything I know."
Martin Malone's "Black George", one of ten runners-up, is a more traditionally Irish story, with occasional stunning images ("He'd red hair and a sad face primed to cry. His lips were almost absent from his face, turned inwards, as if kissing the hurting that was going on inside") scattered through the narrative. Eamon McDonnell's "Tricky Journey" follows a gormless hero through a nightmarishly funny journey between the extremes of Belfast's unionist and republican loony orders.
It is unfortunate that there is really no longer a regular venue for short stories. In the days when the Irish Press ran the New Irish Writing page every Saturday, new writers had 52 chances a year of seeing their work in print. Literary magazines were sparked by its existence, offering further chances of publication and feedback. The market has contracted now, with barely a dozen possible publication sources each year. Many of them take months to publish the story, leaving writers without the instant response that is so vital for the growth of technique. The short story in Ireland is a medium in danger of death.
Lucille Redmond is a fiction writer and journalist